


[miscellaneous ficlets and drabbles]

by aces



Category: Albert Campion - Margery Allingham, Castle, Farscape, Slings & Arrows, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: Ficlets, drabbles, and other short fics from various fandoms, gathered together so I'm not creating ridiculous numbers of fics. :)





	1. Man from UNCLE: Daylight what?

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly had a particularly calm voice this morning, which was worrying in and of itself, “can you explain to me why you failed to capture the THRUSH agents in Brazil?”

“Daylight Savings Time, sir,” Napoleon replied, at his most smooth and respectful. “We thought we were in an area of the country that didn't observe it.”

“Unfortunately,” Illya added, “we were further from the equator than we thought.”

“Daylight Savings Time.” Mr. Waverly looked thoughtful. “You missed them, then.”

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon glanced at his partner. “By an hour.”

“Almost exactly,” Illya added, studying the cover of the report he held in his hands.

“Hmph.” Mr. Waverly stood up and started leaving his office that doubled as the briefing room; the other two men hurriedly stood up and followed. “Why the governments of the world ever started the blasted custom, I shall never know,” he grumbled as he walked down the corridor toward the elevator. “If you ever attempt to use such a flimsy excuse again, gentlemen,” he added with a glare at them both, “I shall see that you’re both put on courier duty for the rest of your careers as field agents.”

“Yessir.” The two men spoke in near-perfect unison and only glanced at each other after they finished speaking.

Mr. Waverly swung around in the elevator and gave them another glare. “Hmph,” he said again, and the doors shut.


	2. Dalziel & Pascoe: freedom to ride

Edgar Wield woke up early one Sunday morning in March, and when he glanced outside, he decided it was too beautiful a day to hang about having a lie-in. When he suggested this to Edwin, his partner inelegantly told him to sod off—perhaps it was too early, if Edwin couldn’t come up with a cleverer riposte—so he went out alone.

He walked the Thunderbird to the end of the drive and then pushed off. The morning was clear, the sun bright, the breeze cheerful. It hadn’t been this warm since the dying days of summer last year. Once he got out of Enscombe, he picked up the pace.

The wind roared in his ears, blasted against his body, would have pushed at his skin if it could have reached through his clothes. The road was clear—still too early for most people on a day of rest—and it was just Wield and the world.

He loved mornings like this, loved the emptiness and the aliveness of it. He hurled back into town and came to a shattering halt just outside the cottage’s front door, where Edwin was waiting with a couple mugs of coffee. He might have whooped on his way up the drive. He took off his helmet and accepted the mug and acerbic look from his partner with his version of a grin.

Later, Edwin had something wittily vulgar to say about the large hunk of metal between his legs, but Wield just laughed.


	3. Castle: Espo and Ryan are in fact Chekov and Sulu of the 21st century

“We are so lost, Javi.”

“Bro, we are _not lost_. Javier Esposito does not get lost. Definitely not in New York City.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do you know how to get back to the precinct?”

“If I don’t know exactly where we are, do you really think I can get us back to the precinct?”

“In other words, we are L-O-S-T.”

“Try the damned GPS again, would you?”

“I’m telling you, it hasn’t had a signal in 3.5…3.6…3.7 minutes.”

“Dammit.”

“We gotta call in.”

“Hell no, Kevin! We are not calling dispatch to tell them we are lost. We’ll never live it down.”

“Then what do you suggest we do? Keep driving around aimlessly until one of us spots something familiar?”

“I don’t see a problem with this plan.”

“Oh, you don’t. I would like to get home to my fiancée at some point.”

“We are not _that_ lost. New York City is not that big.”

“Oh yeah? Wake me when we get to Pennsylvania, would you?”

“Shut up, my phone’s ringing. Beckett! Hey, Beckett, what’s up?...yeah, we talked to that lead, it’s a wash, they didn’t see anything…You want us back at the precinct.”

“Tell her we’re lost!”

“I am _not_ telling her we’re lost!—what’s that, Beckett? Oh, no, Ryan was coughing or something, I don’t know—”

“_Espo_.”

“Shut up, Kev! What’d you say, Beckett? You think we’re—no, c’mon, we are _not lost_, how many times do I have to tell you people—okay, fine, we’re near—wait, are you tracking my phone? Beckett? Seriously?”

“Oh sure, _she_ has GPS signal, why the hell can’t we have GPS signal out here in the _wilds of New York City_\--”

“That’s it? That’s all I need to do to get back?...look, Beckett, could you see it in yourself not to tell anybody else about this little, uh, incident?...thank you, Detective. You are my and Kevin’s hero.”

“We’re not lost anymore?”

“We were never lost in the first place.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Espo.”


	4. Albert Campion: POCKETS!

"You must let me design you a dress," Val said to Amanda, putting an arm around her shoulders. Amanda had been standing momentarily alone at the party, a subdued thing with few men, most of them in uniform. Many of the women too. "For the wedding."

"Out of draperies?" Amanda asked her future sister-in-law cheerfully. "Or perhaps sackcloth?"

"Burlap brown would go so wonderfully with your hair," Valentine said seriously, and Amanda laughed. Val grinned too and stood back from the other woman, putting her hands on Amanda's shoulders and looking her over critically.

"Don't worry," she said, "any dress I make for you will be full of pockets to put interesting and useful things."

"Even a wedding dress?"

Val smiled, secretly. "_Especially_ a wedding dress," she said.


	5. Farscape: Joining

There is no pain now, where Pilot and Moya are joined. At first Pilot missed it, didn't know how to react without that extra limb of _hurt hurt hurt_ running through everything he did.

Now he handles the controls with smooth ease, now he listens for the harmonies that indicate all systems are functioning correctly, now he watches for the strands of the web that he and Moya pull and weave together.

He does not see sunlight or stars, down deep here in Moya, not without turning on a view screen. But he can feel them pressing against Moya's outer skin, the vacuum and those burning pinpricks of fire.

The stars no longer hurt.

Pilot closes his eyes in order to feel, and hear, and see better.


	6. Slings & Arrows: not the right play, hon

"There has to be lightning," Geoffrey said thoughtfully. Everyone else in the theatre turned to look at him, having been in the middle of their own conversations during the short break before rehearsal started again. He stood in the middle of the stage, looking around the space. Visualizing the space.

Ellen sat back in her seat in the front row to watch. "There has to be lightning, and thunder," Geoffrey continued. "And wind. A great storm, the gods taking out their vengeance against man's mistakes." He held up his arms, as if he could conjure up a storm by his hands alone. "Great crashes of light, sound, and _fury_. Who would _dare_ fight against treacherous Mother Nature in this?"

"Uh, Geoffrey?" one of the younger actors asked, tentatively. "We're doing _Much Ado About Nothing_."

"Oh, I know," Geoffrey said, breaking his own moment without a second thought, and Ellen started laughing softly. "I was thinking about something else completely."

Later, Ellen whispered, "_I'll_ show you a storm of fury and passion."


End file.
